Still in the Game

This past weekend, I watched my youngest son's hockey team come back from a 1-0 deficit in a tournament final.

They looked flat. Out of gas. The kind of tired where even the effort to skate hard feels like too much.

Then the coach called a timeout.

Minutes later: a power play goal. Two minutes after that: the game winner.

When the final buzzer went off, parents were on their feet. Kids were piling on the goalie. It was the kind of moment that makes you forget how cold hockey rinks are and how much you've spent on equipment this season.

But the real story didn't start that weekend. It started months ago.

In the spring, my son was cut from the AA team. During tryouts, the coach had moved him to defense - not something he'd asked for, just something that happened in the moment. So he was learning a new position on the fly, in front of evaluators, without time to adjust.

He didn't make the team.

It stung. For him, and honestly, for me too. I watched him process it quietly, the way kids do when they're trying not to let you see how much something hurts.

A few days later, I was driving him to the rink for 4-on-4 with a couple of his good friends. Not a tryout. Not a practice. Just a chance to get back on the ice and have fun after a hard week.

That's when he said it:

"I'm going to prove to them that they made a mistake."

No tears. No excuses. Just resolve.

I didn't say much in response. What do you say to that? "Good for you"? "I'm proud of you"? It all felt too small for what he was carrying.

So I just nodded. And watched him get out of the car and walk into the rink, a little taller than he'd been a few days before.

He decided to stick with defense. Made another competitive team playing that position - this time by choice. Still learning it in real time, in games that mattered, with coaches who didn't know him yet.

And this weekend, when his new team needed a spark, when they were down and tired and it would have been easy to just let the game slip away, they found one.

He didn't score the goals. He wasn't the hero of the story in any obvious way. But he was part of the team that decided they weren't done yet. Part of the group that chose to keep going when it would have been easier to stop.

And they won.

I've been thinking about that moment a lot the last few days.

Not just because I'm proud of him - obviously I’m ridiculously proud of him. But because I'm watching him do something I'm struggling to do myself.

He got cut. He didn't spiral. He didn't spend months questioning whether he was good enough or whether he should just give up on the position entirely. He didn't need a grand plan or a breakthrough moment.

He just decided he wasn't done. And then he showed up and did the work.

I'm three months into a job search that hasn't yielded a single interview. I'm navigating a career transition where I don't know the players, don't speak the language, and don't have a clear path forward.

Some days, I feel like I'm proving I can handle this. Other days, I feel like I'm just trying not to let anyone see how much it hurts.

And here's my kid, showing me what resilience actually looks like.

It's not about having the perfect response to rejection. It's about what you tell yourself after the setback. It's about whether you decide you're done, or whether you decide you're still in the game.

It's not about bouncing back instantly. It's about showing up in the space between rejection and comeback, doing the work even when you're not sure it's going to pay off.

It's not about momentum being easy. It's about staying in motion even when you're tired, even when the outcome isn't guaranteed, even when no one would blame you for sitting this one out.

I thought I'd be the one teaching my kids about perseverance. About not giving up when things get hard. About proving yourself when people count you out.

Turns out, he's teaching me.

He's showing me that you don't need to have it all figured out to keep going. You don't need to know you're going to win. You just need to decide you're still playing.

And maybe that's enough. Maybe that's always been enough.

So I'm taking the lesson. I'm still in the game. I'm still learning the position. I'm still showing up, even when I'm tired and not sure where this is going.

Because if my kid can get cut in the spring and win a tournament in the fall, maybe I can navigate a career transition without needing to have all the answers first.

Maybe I just need to keep showing up. And trust that when the moment comes, I'll be ready.

Just like he was.